sad and lonely inside, like a hollowed tooth with cyanide
groaning and bemoaning about the market, the trade, the money in his bank, thats who mr cottonmouth is
a very rich man with a house in his south
who whines and pouts, while others put his fires out
his tongue is long and split, with two little twins that drip
be careful, if you work for him don't trip, don't make him flip
he'll rip the stage, and try to mend the page
with the same greed that would make your mouth go dry
and like an animal, crass
or a poor child cornered in class
if you ask, why he basks so in the glow of his so called foes
he'll say its me or them, i deserve better than their pen, while he bawls and points, at the street
but if confronted with any form of the truth, it's almost comically as if theres a little cute cat, holding his silvered tongue, straight to the roof
he'll start to mold, his mouth like a snakeskin wallet that can't fold
filled with unpaid bills
but his voice won't go shrill, or squeak, he's adamant you see
that it was "them or me", refusing to believe
that he has soured all the nuts, giving them an awful bitter smell
A flattened rose mumbles
An old cracked button chuckles
Tickled by a 2nd place ribbon
In the corner a tattered doll weeps
Comically consoled by a one-eyed bear
Ballet slippers long for a pointed toe
A dried corsage sits inside a dusty tiara
A leather-bound diploma shouts success
A tear stained letter sorrow
For joy and sadness are but fleeting moments
Imbedded in the soul of ephemera
Mind; that nebulous cloud,
is not what we suppose it to be.
It is not between our ears or eyes,
that is merely a rented room.
Its lodgings are everywhere.
Mind may reside in a starry hotel
circling a solar plexus,
but even that place
is only a transitory tent.
Mind is not gray brain-matter,
not a constant twitching of neurons
rooted to a branching spinal cord.
When Mind leaves its borrowed homes
it overwhelms any thought of size or shape,
just as the notion
of a man-made image of God
comically underwhelms.
The keeper of this drunken tavern of Mind
serves love in thimblefuls
but each one is deep enough
for any brain to drown within.
Irony, often, enacts comically fatal roles,
Brings dignitaries down from their highest pedestal poles;
Sometimes, in a symbolically pragmatic costume,
Of the protagonist, destruction its role does assume;
Julia Gillard, Australian feminist Prime Minister,
Kitten heels! Fell over public! Earned laughter sinister!
Unprejudiced slip! Humiliated tentatively!
Escorts and envoys, though, waited on her attentively!
Her fall followed her fiery address on male chauvinism,
Fall on grass and fall-from-grace were linked to her feminism;
Did Julia Gillard abet the Western Australian State,
From the crown of the United Kingdom to terminate?
The alleged treason, with her falls, harmed her reputation,
As her opponents wished, these led to her resignation;
Conservatism of foes, I'd conclude, is cause of her fall,
To cry in wilderness, yet, she has felt, has been her call...!
20 April 2022
In suppression of treason what motive or reason Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Squirrely squiggly
Toughly Triggly
Whirly Wiggily
Girly Giggily
Laughingly happy
Graphing her Gaffy
Draffingly Draffy
Slappily slappy
Nonsensical verse
Comically inverse
Maniacally reverse
Fanatically converse
Piggily pig
Jiggily jig
Miggily mig
Squiggily squig
Players in the stadium
Patient as waiting soldiers
Seek stirring to signify
Attack artillery emboldened
Provisions are messages
Loaded with fresh opening
Responses rapidly fired
Lonely's ease encroaching
Place plus time is firmed
Balaclava covered burgler
Creeps comically around corners
Salivating, smiling, eager
Tally the touches, gripped tap
Slithered fingers, swimming fish
Sock threaded leeches reach thighs
Standard restraint abolished
Meddled with moods hang resplendent
Sexy ceremony elevates
Podium of passion captures
Camera's fleeting forever embrace
31st July
Third or First
Bronze Gold high
In the jumbled backyard of mind
they arrive in dark cowls,
gather behind an inverse eye,
wait there for the eyes themselves
to flip those images over into
a word chewing anger.
Manikins move in those shadows,
tussle in a muted violent parody
of action and reaction.
There is blood, it is dark,
it is cloudy.
War begins at the eyebrows,
mittens fumble
with small caliber ammo,
deadly enough but not explosive,
claws must grapple
beyond the roar of the pulse.
Suddenly you see her
not in her fury but yours;
storms subside into summer showers,
a mock performance of Othello
exits stage left, a shamefaced cast
comically admitting the farce.
"I am a fool
and I don’t deserve you."
Breast heaving, she turns away
to repaint her emotions
for a moment hating that she
loves you,
yet knowing she has won again
another blindfolded battle.
Excuse me ,,,,,,,yes,
green-eyes and uninterested.
I saw you again last night,
this time shmoozing with gallery clic trendies.
We have met many places,
the places I haunt.
I've witnessed you amongst the smell of particle-oak shelves,
and drying paper.
Another was a dimly-lit caffeine-injection clinic.
Each time.
You froze my eyes.
A strong feminine alternative pin-up.
The elegance with a "in your face" attitude.
Your hair has always been different
perhaps, I'm sure different in color.
Your facial features are a unique intoxicant,
different from the fake and common.
Perhaps.
Nose, longer, shorter.
Eyebrows, full or thin.
But you intimidate me.
I've stumbled around you
G.Q.-hesitant-improvisation, insecure rantings.
Perhaps.
If these puzzles pieces were not forced
If you only caught me , confident.
Which sometimes happens, perhaps.
I could have wowed you with me-isum.
Comically worded dances
For the payment of your smiles.
I'd rant to your ears
For to see your eyes.
We Perhaps
Would be, who of what each is.
AHH...wishful bliss.
So I will see you,
Perhaps, I'm not sure
Perhaps.
Go on, devise your schemes,
it won't work on me, brother.
I'm wise to it, it's comically predictable.
Go ahead and play your ace,
so I can trump it.
Don't take me for a fool;
don't even try it. I'm not
your dancing howdy-doody
No string is attached
behind my back.
I have very little patience
for childish games, so, please
choose your next victim.
You play the Rumba, I'll play the Samba
We could go back and forth all day!
Listen, my point is quite simple
Do not pull a wool over my eyes
Do not take me for a fool, and
Do not play childish games with me...
because two can play that game!
Submitted for...
Games - Mental or Physical - Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by William Kekaula
Date submitted: 10/05/2020
Date originally written: 04/07/2020
hey, what did you do!?
your face looks quite suspicious...
yet comically cute!
Date written: 04/04/2020
the black and
white ink laid
aside for
centerfold gold
the choice
of elementary
girl
basic colors
comically
displayed
Hagar
the horrible
Brenda Starr
the family
circle
Blondie
dad
read all the
sections
except
mine
those
happy days
no tablet
in hand, phone
attached
to the wall
a lazy
Sunday
afternoon
however
the thought
crossed
my mind
a wristwatch
that tells time
and lets me
watch tv
besides
who knew
5/25/2019
But o, But o
Comically wrong
almost from the get-go.
Lanky, legs coil a foot,
soon green not normal
a pile to be swept,
damaged and labeled.
Its thin contoured face,
noise sound effects
rather than words,
his mind a mystery
still sweet,
but without a label.
12/28/2017
Night into the night it's lonely
standing on the edge of "it's only"
looking for that someone to hold me,
could that soul be you.
My hands reaching for angels mythological,
methodical, logical, looking for that miracle,
I'm not cynical, heaven is more than biblical,
This is not my typical, all I want it you.
Falling darkness and I'm crawling,
you're name on my lips and I'm calling,
And you come and rescue me...
Night into the night it's lonely
standing on the edge of "it's only"
looking for that someone to hold me,
Will that soul be you?
You're hands catching broken beautifully,
ironically, comically, glass to a sand of sea.
I'm not invisible, miserable wanting to be free,
This is not my typical, don't let go of me.
I hear singing in the starlight,
I hear you say "baby, it's alright"
I fly into the heaven tonight.
Falling darkness and I'm crawling,
you're name on my lips and I'm calling,
Night into the night I'm not lonely,
here you are, in my heart, to hold me.
From the realm of their own
Are weaved verses
The visions they have
They convey romantically
Tragically and rarely comically
They entice with their array
Of words sometimes
Straight forwardly at others
Hidden away beneath embezzling
Thoughts,so much they convey and share
We are lost in their world
Practically be with them
In those moments they render
Unmindful of the world
Around them , the happenings
They weave a web around
Themselves and their inner world
Their visions laid bare
We love them or loathe
Depending on what they convey
They wield the power to
Change the world
Their works possess the might
We've been gifted with
Poets like Wordsworth,Shakespeare and Eliot
What revolutions came about
After they entered this romantic world
Poets visions transform ours
We love to be with them through their works
New and newer works are entering the arena
To keep us romantically inclined
Thanks to them we are transported
And transformed.
I'm sure it's my imagination
that absolute ludicrous, convoluted
nonsensical, useless, illogical, even
comically forced rhyme is applauded,
lauded, praised and commended
as splendid
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